Psychosomatic
by threesummerdays
Summary: "He's sure there's an explanation for this – psychosomatic sexual displays, was there such a thing? does it matter? why is he complaining? – but he doesn't really care." More AU S10 plotless smut.


**A/N:** I'm clearly struck by the need to write smut. I don't know what this says about my current state of mind, but I hope no one will mind. :) Another AU S10, in which Russians don't exist. Not a kitchen table moment, but a very long pointless smut. Enjoy!

* * *

He doesn't know why she invited him over so late. It's from another one of their late night tête-à-têtes that he once tried to discourage, but since Albany they've been occurring more and more frequently. And he can't find it in him to complain.

It's after a particularly stressful day in which Tariq and Calum got in another fight about some stupid bugging system, Rosie was kidnapped, and Dimitri nearly shot himself in the foot. Literally.

So when his phone rings at two past three in the morning, he knows who it's going to be.

"Can't sleep either?" he says as greeting, his voice low and deep and beautiful.

"It's all so much," she replies, and he can only imagine her curled up on a chair with the phone pressed nervously to her ear as Fidget slumbers nearby.

"Good thing it turned out, though."

"Barely."

"Mmm."

"Come over."

He drops the phone and curses himself as he bends over to pick it up before Scarlet comes and licks it.

Too late.

"Oh, for the love of all that's good," he mutters, wiping it on his leg as the terrier pants happily at his feet.

"Everything okay?"

"Scarlet got to the phone."

"Oh."

"What did you say?"

"I think you heard me, Harry."

"Just humor me."

"Come over," she says, slowly and perfectly enunciated.

"That's what I thought you said."

"Please, Harry. I'm… I don't want to be alone in my house tonight."

"I'm on my way."

And now he sits on her sofa, keeping to himself as she watches him and he watches Fidget and Fidget watches him right back.

"You didn't have to come," she says quietly.

"When you ask me to come, I'm going to come, Ruth," he says. "It's what… _we_ do."

She smiles bitterly and watches Fidget. He's still staring at the man who usurped his place on the sofa.

"Come upstairs?"

This, Harry is certain, is what cardiac arrest feels like.

"What?"

"Come upstairs," she says, firmly, determined. "The bed is enormous and I get lonely. And tonight, I don't want to be alone."

"Right. That's… that's why I came over here in the first place."

She nods and stands, holding out her hand. He stares at it for a minute. He wants to think that the blush rising up her neck and blossoming across her chest is because she's afraid of being so bold, but he's guessing she had a little to drink earlier and that's probably the reason.

"I'm sober," she adds quietly, and he's only slightly astounded by her ability to know exactly what he's thinking.

"Ruth, I don't know if this is the right thing to do."

"Harry, keep me company. Please. I… I miss you."

How she can miss him when she never allowed herself to have him is an interesting question for another time when she's not begging him to come to her bedroom with her. He files it away for safe keeping.

She tugs his hand and they make their way down the hall and up the stairs. Fidget contentedly curls up in his rightful place on the sofa.

"Which side?" he asks when she returns from the en suite to find him still standing at the foot of the bed, staring at it like it's a nasty minefield.

"Er, right, I guess."

"As I look at it or as I lay in it?"

"Looking."

"Right."

She shakes her head and smiles as he stiffly settles into the left side. She slips easily beneath the silk and rustles a bit before curling up on her side and sighing happily into the pillow. He reaches out and flicks off the lamp.

"Did you lock the door?" he says into the darkness, and he feels her nod against the pillow. "Good. Well, er…"

"Goodnight, Harry," she whispers, and his heart melts.

"Goodnight, Ruth."

At a quarter past five, he's still wide-awake and completely stiff. It's a good thing they get the day off tomorrow, because otherwise he'd be having real difficulty moving his arm more than a two-degree angle. His arms are kept military-straight at his sides and his knees have locked up from staying in the same position for a long time.

But he'll be damned if he gets comfortable and she thinks he's trying something.

He's about to shut his eyes again and attempt to sleep when she starts to shuffle beside him.

_Shit_, he thinks as he watches her moving around the sheets and making little moaning noises. _That is not attractive. Ruth writhing in the same bed I'm in and tugging at her clothes and… oh, God, it _is_ attractive._

She's pulling impatiently at her pajama top and whimpering when it's still there. Then, as Harry lies watching her odd movements, she, with apparent and unconscious coolness of head, pulls the shirt over her head and throws it to the floor.

_If there was a God, He would never tempt me like this. This is just cruel_.

Her perfect breasts are lit by the moon, heavenly marble peaks waiting for him to love them with all his might. She's calmed somewhat, though her hand is straying beneath the elastic of the bottoms.

_If she does the same thing to them, it's all over_.

She sighs quietly and pushes the duvet away from her chest. He stares at the curve, memorizes the shape in case this never happens again. But the longer he stares, the more he wants to take one in his mouth and kiss it and lick it and bite…

She shifts and turns on her side, facing him, her breasts pushed together temptingly in front of his eyes.

_This is impossible._

He holds his hands back (barely) and patiently stares. But oh, how they'd feel in his hands, against his chest, sweating and frantically heaving as he pushes into her again and again and again…

Her hand is dipping beneath the waist of her bottoms and he can see her fingers playing with the top of her thighs. He's sure there's an explanation for this – psychosomatic sexual displays, was there such a thing? does it matter? why is he complaining? – but he doesn't really care.

And then, without any prompting from his brain, his hand reaches out and brushes against her nipple.

He wants to withdraw (no he doesn't) but then she lets out another little moan and her nipple is erect and he knows, he _knows_ it's because she knows it's him touching her.

If he was in any doubt, her soft, _"Oh, Harry,_" confirms it.

He's bolder now, stroking the underside of one breast gently while the other hand toys with the other nipple. He's working her as he knows only he can, massaging gently, doing his best to keep this impersonal. He's trying to calm her down, get her back to sleep.

Yeah, right.

It gets personal – very personal – as soon as his head, seemingly of its own accord, dives into her chest and he starts to kiss and nip and suck. He takes one peak in his mouth and sucks as hard as he can, and she lets out a soft cry of pleasure.

If she's still asleep at this point, he needs to send her to TRING.

Her hand is still working under the pajama bottoms so, with his free hand, he follows the path and stills it. And as he strokes and rubs and tickles, he realizes.

"No knickers," she whispers when his mouth goes slack around one very aroused nipple.

"Christ, Ruth, why didn't you just ask me to fuck you?" he whispers, running his hand over her smooth hip.

"Because letting you explore all by yourself is much more fun, wouldn't you agree?"

"Ruth, tell me this isn't why you invited me over tonight."

"If I did, I'd be lying."

"Oh, Ruth," he growls, taking her breast in his mouth once again. "Oh, Ruth, you have no idea what you do to me."

"If this is any indication," she whispers, reaching out and stroking his growing erection through his boxers, "I'd say I'm doing pretty well."

Once upon a time, many years ago, he imagined what they'd be like together. It's unfair to say he thought of it with every new female face in the office, but with a fair number he'd considered. With Ruth, he'd dreamed. Dreamed long, detailed, horrifyingly arousing dreams. In fact, he's surprised he didn't get hard every time he looked at her from his office with the things she'd done to him in his dreams.

But in the here and now, with her smooth skin under his fingertips and her moans as he shoves the bottoms from her and goes down on her, licking and sucking, he couldn't imagine a more beautiful existence. He takes his time with her – with other women, he'd always tried to rush this bit, soften them up so they'd be more willing to return the favor, but Ruth is different – and makes sure he prods her with just the right amount of pressure in all the right places. She shivers and moans and shakes in his arms, and he just keeps smiling and sucking and loving.

"Do you have any idea how good you taste?" he whispers, and she keens at his voice on her center. "You are ambrosia."

She sighs and her eyes close again, and he knows they're rolling back as he nips lightly. His fingers slip inside her while he lightly laps at her, and they curl powerfully, coaxing her to infinity.

She leaps off the deep end and comes in a bone-rattling, eye-piercing, toxically beautiful screaming orgasm.

He's damn proud of himself.

While she's still tasting the stars, he pushes himself on top of her, boxers long gone on the floor, and pushes into her.

She's not expecting that, and she gasps at the sudden fullness.

"Oh, Harry!"

"You don't know how long I've wanted to do this," he whispers, fighting his urges and pulling all the way out of her before pushing in again. "Years and years of desire and now I can finally take you like I've always wanted."

"Fuck me, Harry," she whispers, barely opening her eyes, barely breathing. "Fast and hard."

"If you can still think in complete sentences," he says, repeating his movement, "I guess I have to."

So he goes harder and faster and the bed squeaks and shakes. She moans and clutches at any part of him she can. His hair – she rips it out. His back – she digs her nails in. His hips – she wraps her legs around. His mouth – she bites and kisses and probes with her curious tongue.

He has never felt so fulfilled as he does in this moment – her damp warmth tight around him (she's _so_ tight, he's never felt anything like it) and her mouth on his and her breasts scraping back and forth, back and forth, meringue peaks against his heartbeat.

She doesn't know how she's denied this for so many years. She always wondered why women kept coming on to him. She thought him attractive, obviously, but it was charisma and generosity and heart as well as an unconventionally handsome physicality. But those other women, what had they seen?

Everything she hadn't.

They saw that those full lips could bring a woman to her knees within fifteen seconds.

They saw the way those eyes pierced a soul as he held a gaze and whispered, "I love you."

They saw those arms that kept him elevated just enough to keep from crushing his lover, but close enough that they could feel each other's pulse.

They saw those fingers, those damn talented fingers that made her melt.

They saw it all, and she'd ignored it.

That was all over now.

She sighs as he pushes into her again, gaining speed, just as hard. She grips the headboard like a porn star and pushes back against him, sighing and moaning and calling his name and random expressions of love in seventeen different languages.

He returns the favor.

Her favorite is in English.

Repeatedly.

When he's so close to the edge that she can see the beads of sweat gathering on his brow, she pulls him in for another deep kiss.

"Don't worry about me," she says between thrusts. "Come."

He nods, but before she can say anything more, he reaches between them and pinches her clitoris.

She doesn't have a single coherent thought as she bursts into two thousand and eight sparkling pieces.

When she comes to, Harry's spread across her, breathing deeply. She's squished between him and the mattress, and there's no place she'd rather be. She smiles and reaches up to stroke his damp hair. She's not sure how long they've been asleep, but she doesn't mind. He didn't even have the strength (the will?) to pull out of her, but she feels perfectly content the way they are. She runs her hands over his strong back and shuts her eyes again, smiling against his cheek.

She notices the change in his breathing and the stirring inside of her. She gently shifts beneath him and tries to hold in her moan as he starts to harden again. She hopes he wakes up so that he can take her again and again…

"You can't be comfortable," he says sleepily.

"I'm not," she admits. "Though that might change if you'd get a move on."

"Ruth, you can't possibly be…"

"Harry, just thinking about you inside me got me wet. Please."

So he drags himself from a very pleasant dream and addresses the even pleasanter reality – Ruth writhing and screaming his name as he takes her for a second time. Even he's surprised by how quickly he recovered, but he's not going to complain, especially when she climaxes like _that_, and he follows quickly behind.

"Harry Pearce," she whispers as his chest crushes hers again, "how long have you been hiding that superpower from me?"

"What, the ability to make you climax like that?"

"Mmm."

"If you'd only given me a chance years ago," he whispers, stroking her hair, "I could have given you a few more rounds a night."

"Oh, I think you still can," she whispers, reaching between them and stroking his now-freed penis.

He feels the stirrings again and he stares at her with pure adoration.

"Only you do this to me," he says, and she blushes slightly.

"Good. Though I hope you won't go around trying it with anyone else."

"As long as you don't go sleep stripping for anyone but me."

"Only you, Harry," she whispers, pulling him down for another kiss.

"Only ever you, Ruth."


End file.
